


tomorrow

by Emlee_J



Series: One Hundred and Seventy-Two Centimetres [6]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drabble, Light Angst, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emlee_J/pseuds/Emlee_J
Summary: Shouyou focuses on the tomorrows that beckon with the things he wants, not the tomorrows with the commitments he doesn’t want to make. The persistent pulse skipping, the stomach twisting, it all falls into tomorrows he doesn’t want to focus on yet. So he doesn’t. And the years go by obediently until one day, tomorrow comes along, and knocks.In the end, Shouyou realises he’s in love in a way that is both dramatic and utterly mundane.He sits on his bike, in the middle of a crowded street with someone’s cooling dinner in the bag on his back, and grips the handle bars, tries to remember how to breathe.Shouyou watches Kageyama Tobio throw a ball up in the air, score a service ace. Watches as the camera zooms in on his face, his victorious fist clench, and feels his heart crack in two.-In which tomorrow will always come, even if you may not want it to.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Series: One Hundred and Seventy-Two Centimetres [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931680
Comments: 46
Kudos: 499





	tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> i miss brazil arc and it's melancholy feel a lot, so i wrote this. this fic isn't tagged 'unrequited love' because ofc kags feels the same as hinata, and i might add a follow up to this in kageyama's pov once i can wrangle some words together. i do love a bit of mutual pining.
> 
> (update - feb '21) kageyama's companion piece is now [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263092)

Tomorrow is a word Shouyou has a complicated relationship with.

Tomorrow is a word for procrastination. I’ll do that homework tomorrow, I’ll tidy my room tomorrow. I’ll do all sorts of things that are boring and unimportant; tomorrow.

But tomorrow is also a new day, full of new opportunities. Get better at receiving, better at passing, blocking, spiking. Better at _volleyball._ Dust yourself off from the regrets of today and look towards tomorrow with brighter eyes.

For the longest time, so long in fact Shouyou cannot even remember when it started, he looks at Kageyama and his stomach flips. Just on occasion, for seemingly no reason at all. It ranges from when Kageyama is doing something incredibly stupid and Shouyou is cackling in glee, to when it’s just the two of them, alone in the gym, and Kageyama is quietly serious in his meticulous sets.

Shouyou looks at him sometimes, and his organs jumble themselves around inside, making him warm in a way that’s not related to exercise. He looks and frowns and is confused because it’s just Kageyama. The sensations pass quickly, though never cease. Shouyou is too busy to give them much thought. It’s not like the feeling is unpleasant. So he shrugs and thinks, _I’ll deal with it tomorrow._

Procrastination, procrastination.

Time moves and Shouyou focuses on the tomorrows that beckon with the things he wants, not the tomorrows with the commitments he doesn’t want to make. The persistent pulse skipping, the stomach twisting, it all falls into tomorrows he doesn’t want to focus on yet. So he doesn’t. And the years go by obediently until one day, tomorrow comes along, and knocks.

In the end, Shouyou realises he’s in love in a way that is both dramatic and utterly mundane.

He sits on his bike, in the middle of a crowded street with someone’s cooling dinner in the bag on his back, and grips the handle bars, tries to remember how to breathe.

It shouldn’t be monumental. It’s just Kageyama.

Kageyama, who Shouyou has watched for years. Has watched almost every one of his games since he went pro and never felt like this. It’s like someone came along and squeezed his heart tight, instead of just tickling it. He doesn’t feel warm, he feels cold, and an ache settles deep inside.

Maybe it’s the big screen with the strangers cheering underneath, so far removed from his tiny laptop screen. Maybe it’s the jersey, drenched in scarlet instead of gleaming white. Maybe it’s the stage. Maybe it’s that he’s in the same country, the closest he’s ever been since he left Japan for the beach and yet is further away than ever.

Shouyou watches Kageyama Tobio throw a ball up in the air, score a service ace. Watches as the camera zooms in on his face, his victorious fist clench, and feels his heart crack in two.

So he turns away, pushes off and cycles with fervour to his last destination. He barely hears the words said to him by his final customer, gives hardly any thought to the money that’s placed in his hand that he dumps into his pocket. His mind is full and whirling and all he can think about is Kageyama in red red _red._

Shouyou chains his bike outside his apartment complex messily when he finally returns home, his hands shaking over the lock. He storms up the stairs, slams open the door and throws his stuff into his room. Spots Pedro poke his head out of his, headphones half off as he peers at him with a worried frown. Ignores him as he stomps to the shower and washes away the day’s sweat furiously.

He throws on his rattiest, most ridiculous pyjamas (bright green with little boars on), sits on his bed, folds his arms, and sulks.

This isn’t _fair._

Shouyou flops forward and buries his face in his bedsheets, lies there until he feels his hair starting to dry into frizzy ringlets against the nape of his neck. Stupid Kageyama and his stupid, traitorous heart for deciding to whisper truths in his ribcage when there’s nothing he can do about them. Kageyama’s a world away, dominating the stage, and he’s here, on the beach and even if he wasn’t there’s nothing he can do anyway because _it’s Kageyama._

“Shouyou?”

He grunts as Pedro nudges open the door and peeks inside.

“Shouyou, Japan’s playing.”

He grunts again.

“… Are you okay?”

He stays silent. Wonders if it’s okay to say _‘I don’t know.’_ He’s frustrated and upset and furious with himself. He’s spent several years telling himself _‘I’ll deal with it tomorrow’_ and here tomorrow was, having gotten bored with waiting for him, and forcing him to deal with it _now._

Because a part of him has always loved Kageyama. He’s just never realised he’s always had a section of himself carved out so Kageyama can occupy the space.

The door closes again and Shouyou groans into his pillow. He knows he should probably watch the game. It’s not like Kageyama’s a _regular_ right now, he won’t have to watch him the _whole_ time… and yet. The thought still sends his stomach squirming unpleasantly.

Shouyou lies there and huffs and sulks and tries to resolutely think about everything that is _not_ Kageyama Tobio and fails miserably.

Then the door opens again and Pedro shuffles inside, followed by a warm, greasy sort of smell that makes Shouyou lift his head in sheer curiosity. The bowl Pedro is holding is filled with something that looks very salty, full of cheese and dripping with sauce and all the things that provided exactly zero nutrition.

Pedro waves the bowl. “Come on,” he encourages, and Shouyou’s stomach gurgles in betrayal.

He sighs, rolls out of bed and follows Pedro like a particularly sullen dog to the living area, where Pedro has already switched on the tv. It’s not Japan’s game, which means it must’ve wrapped up. It’s France vs Russia and Shouyou flops onto the sofa next to Pedro, pulls his feet onto the cushions, wraps his arms around his knees and starts to perk up, just a bit.

“Japan won,” Pedro offers, along with a fork, as he settles the bowl of cheesy, saucy, salty-zero-nutrition comfort food between them. He watches Shouyou out the corner of his eye.

Shouyou knows he should be happy. Should cheer and grin and pump a fist in the air for his home country to have won and made it to the next round. But then the Kageyama-shaped part of himself twinges and he hums into his knees instead and shovels cheese into his mouth.

“So,” Pedro says, and Shouyou’s brow twitches at his roommate’s change to hesitant Japanese. “Why is indoor volleyball different?”

He means the rules, Shouyou realises after a pause, and he lets his legs fall until he’s crosslegged and chews on more cheese. He’s being asked in Japanese, leaving the door open for him to explain without having to try and wrestle his tongue around Portuguese with a brain full of fog, and he feels gratitude fill him along with the comfort food. Slowly, he speaks. Explains the libero, the rotation, the referee signals.

Tomorrow, Pedro will probably remember none of it. Won’t remember when the libero switches in and out, when a team rotates, what that hand signal means.

Tomorrow, Shouyou won’t eat anything that isn’t nutritious.

Tomorrow, Shouyou will go to the beach and train and train until he's dizzy from the sun and there’s a million tiny grains of sand under his nails.

Tomorrow, Kageyama Tobio will play another game of volleyball, and Shouyou will try to forget, for just a little longer, that he is love with him.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on twitter @Emlee_J


End file.
